On Fire
by ChaosRocket
Summary: Burn until the ashes burn, too.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Cowritten with Taemanaku.

* * *

Malik didn't bother shutting off the engine. In a moment, Bakura would come bounding out the back door, storm through the dimly lit parking lot, and shout "Go!" before he'd even mounted the back seat. Forget strapping on the helmet. Forget saying, "Hey, thanks for waiting." With him, each move was rapid fire.

So Malik waited with a cigarette between his lips and the keys jangling in his pocket. The night was still young. Past midnight, at most. They'd have enough time to swipe a bottle of Shochu on the way home and count all the yen while warming their feet under the kotatsu table.

Malik shivered and wrapped his leather jacket tighter around himself. December was rapidly maturing, though if he had to guess the date, it would be like catching the smoke billowing from the tip of his cigarette. And he didn't give enough of a fuck to try.

Abruptly, the back door of the Sukiya restaurant unlatched and a thin, hooded man slipped out, his unnaturally bright, red hair burning under the faint porch light. Malik flicked the cigarette to the ground and snapped the kickstand back with the heel of his boot.

Bakura slammed down behind Malik, and barked, "Alright, let's go."

"I don't know why you get so uptight," Malik remarked, switching on the headlights. "We're in Roppongi, for the sake of the gods. I doubt anyone heard you."

Bakura snorted, and Malik knew that when he tried to fight Bakura's propensity for vigilance, he was fighting three thousand years of it.

"Get going already."

"Hang on," Malik said.

Malik felt a pair of arms tentatively coil around his midriff, and he waited until the grip was tight before he jerked the front wheel to the left, revved up the engine, and tore out of the parking lot.

As with many things, Bakura had a peculiar perspective on physical contact. Sex was fine, but touching was not. He avoided Malik like a parasite until they got into bed, where all bets were off and Bakura's fingers were persistently on him. When the goal was skin sliding, rubbing, slipping against skin—that was okay. Otherwise, Bakura would allow only the briefest of touches before snapping away.

"How much do you figure?" Malik shouted into the wind. The machine hummed under his hands while Bakura's heart drummed against his back.

"We'll see," Bakura shouted back. "Maybe ninety thousand, if we're lucky."

Malik smirked and twisted the right grip downward, accelerating. "It's us. We're never lucky."

* * *

The bottle of Shochu perfectly complemented the remainder of their night. Around six in the morning, Malik pulled a small, laminated box from the closet and slid it across the table toward Bakura. The polished rubberwood surface was streaked with liquor and cigarette ashes; scattered across it was an alcohol-drenched deck of cards, and on the floor were neat little piles of yen.

Ninety-seven thousand, three hundred and twenty of them. That would last them the week, at least. Although, as usual, Bakura would store most of it.

The storing habit wasn't unusual for him. Bakura must have behaved just the same when he'd lived and robbed in Ancient Egypt. And after being defeated in the Memory World and then somehow returning—(neither of them questioned why or how it had happened, Malik simply accepting Bakura back into his life as his partner in crime when he'd shown up on his doorstep one day with no knowledge or explanation of how he'd come to be there)—his habits had become even more extreme. He moved with more caution, and with purpose, not interested in anything other than accomplishing solely that which needed to be accomplished.

His manner of doing things had become more severe in other ways, too- the sharp edge of his words had dulled, and he skirted danger more often instead of running headlong into it. The result wasn't obvious—or wouldn't be to anyone who didn't know him like Malik did—but it meant that when it came to robbing, Bakura only used the money for necessities, and the rest he stored.

Malik only minded the habit in the sense that he wanted something more luxurious than the small, simply-furnished apartment and the unremarkable clothes he wore. His entire childhood had already been spent having that and less.

He'd had money in the in the beginning, of course. As the leader of the tomb keepers clan, he'd had access to riches almost beyond imagining. Not to mention all the rare Duel Monsters cards he'd had. But, in a fit of pique, he'd burned every one of the cards, and donated nearly all the money to charity. At the time, he'd hated every single thing that reminded him of his past, or his duties, or where he had come from, or his former criminal tendencies, and he'd wanted to start fresh and to prove he could make it on his own.

That was before he'd opened his door to find a pair of all too familiar crimson eyes staring back at him, and an hour of panting and sweating and spit-slick kisses later he'd suddenly realized how bored and listless and not himself he'd felt since he'd been trying to make an honest go of it.

So they'd left Egypt together, the place having too many bad memories for both of them, and settled in Japan, if only because it was familiar enough to be comfortable but not so familiar as to bring with it the constant oppression and weight of their pasts.

But there was no sense in dwelling on any of that anymore. The money was gone, and at least donating it had probably done some good for some queer kids, as well as the fact that the generous act had pleased and impressed Rishid and Ishizu—

Malik shook his head and cut off the thought, focusing his attention back on Bakura.

Bakura raised an eyebrow at the image on the laminated box Malik had presented, casually swirling the scant liquid in the Shochu bottle.

"Black? Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes." Malik drew out the word overdramatically. "It'll be sexy as hell."

"Mm?" Bakura looked at him through eyes lidded with liquor and lust.

"Plus," Malik continued, ripping off the top of the box. "We can keep up our little tradition afterward."

The Shochu bottle smacked onto the table with a resounding thump and Bakura rose to his feet. Malik knew he wouldn't have to speak twice when bringing up sex.

Ten minutes later, Malik was sitting hot and snug under the heater of the kotatsu table, impatiently raking a nail over the empty glass bottle, while Bakura applied glob after glob of coloring agent to his hair, splashing bits across the table. Malik had had red hair a couple months previous, similar to Bakura's current dye job but a bit darker, and it had been exciting for a while. Malik had spiked it a few times and had found Bakura's craving hands to be delicious and satisfying. But Bakura owned the red hair. He wore it much better than Malik did.

At first, the hair dye was an attempt to blend in better. While Roppongi was packed with exotic restaurants and dance clubs—the perfect haven for the casual foreigner, thirsty and begging for more parties, more alcohol, more pleasure—and although crime was hardly even considered covert around here, it was still smart to change one's appearance every once in a while.

But now the dye was for something else, too.

After Bakura finished smearing and rolling the mixture all over his scalp, Malik waited for half an hour, smoking again, so drunk and his eyes so blurry that even when he blinked again and again, he still saw double. He stuck his cigarette into the plush blanket and started burning a hole in it.

"Quit that," Bakura said, before striding into the kitchen to clean up his dye-covered hands. "I don't want to bother replacing the heater under that blanket if you break it."

"I'm not going to break it." Malik traced the seaming in the blanket with the lit part of the cigarette, watching the wax strip burn and curl while the fabric blackened.

"Like hell you won't," Bakura shouted from the kitchen. "Isn't that what you said about the stove? Now it's just fucking take-out all the time. I can't even—"

He paused, hands still under the tap and rinsing off the black goop, when he noticed an open envelope on the kitchen counter. It was standard letter size, one stamp, with a return address from Egypt. Which was just strange. They never got any mail. Bakura was under the impression that no one even knew they were in Japan, least of all someone from halfway around the world.

Drying his hands, he picked up the envelope and slid out the letter. He caught the first few lines:

 _Dear Malik,_

 _Brother, I still have not heard from you. Since none of my letters are returning, I can assume that they are reaching you. Please answer me_ —

"You can't even what?" Malik shouted across the room, and Bakura was so startled that he dropped the letter.

Bakura had to think back to the last thing he'd said. He stuffed the letter back into the envelope without reading the rest, and walked back into the living room.

"I can't even cook ramen for myself," Bakura finished smoothly, kneeling down beside a blurry-eyed, now black-haired Malik, who was still curled up in the heater blanket, which now sported a fist-sized hole in it.

"You don't even eat ramen," Malik said, leaning forward to touch Bakura's face, as he puckered his lips and attempted to kiss him. In his double-vision, he missed, and planted a wet kiss on his chin.

Bakura leaned back, pulling Malik's hand away.

"I think your hair's done. You should go wash it out."

Malik was unabated. He scrambled out of the blanket and jumped on Bakura, the motion causing gobs of hair dye to spurt onto Bakura's face and shirt.

"Goddammit, Malik—"

Malik looked down coyly while straddling him. His face was flushed bronze-red, and Bakura was too distracted by the growing erection pressing into his navel to mind the way Malik grabbed him by the wrists and pinned him to the floor.

"Join me," he breathed, brushing his lips against Bakura's. "We haven't done it in the shower in a while."

Bakura curled his lip at the strong smell of ammonia, as strands of Malik's wet hair swept across his face. But stronger still was the scent of Malik: cigarette smoke, a hint of Shochu on his tongue, minty aftershave, and spicy cologne, a luxurious fragrance he wore for the money it cost rather than for its smell. The scents rolled into one heady aroma, and Bakura was running the tip of his tongue across Malik's bottom lip before he knew it, pushing his hips upward as Malik slid down.

"Wait," Bakura said suddenly, "Malik—"

"Mmm?" Malik's moan raised toward the end, resounding as a question, while he chewed softly at Bakura's lip and rocked into his hips.

"There was… a letter… on the counter," Bakura managed between sharp breaths. He should have been more concerned about the situation. Ishizu's tone sounded urgent, an exasperated plea between each pen stroke, a frustrated battle with what seemed like an unresponsive Malik, and so Bakura couldn't help worrying about what was going on. They had only been in Roppongi for a few months, but this was the first Bakura had seen of Ishizu's letters. How many more had there been?

But he was drunk. He'd had almost half the bottle, and it was suddenly hitting him full-force. The present moment became blurred, a series of feelings and colors, while he blinked a few times and struggled to keep up.

Malik looked down at him, face pinched and eyes narrowed. He pushed against Bakura more roughly, saying, "I don't want to think about that right now, Bakura."

Then he looked at him, entreating, and sighing, he said, "Don't make me think about that," before his voice faded into an exhausted kiss.

At some point, they made it to the bathroom, and the water ran hot and scalding over them both. Bakura tore at his soaking clothes, peeling off the heavy, blue jeans and leaving them in a pile by the drain, straining out of his wet t-shirt, as Malik pulled him forward, and they landed against the tiled wall. Rivers of black water streamed down their skin as the hair dye washed off.

Malik laughed suddenly, and the sound jarred Bakura's ears.

"Bakura—" he gasped out, still laughing, "can you believe—can you believe we actually got in the shower with our clothes on?"

Bakura frowned, but then Malik pulled him into a deep kiss, and as he pressed his naked body into Malik's wet clothes, he started laughing too. The whole thing was pretty funny, actually, and he was sure that he'd scorn himself right now if he were sober. Instead, he just laughed with Malik. But then the denim rubbing against his bare crotch become less funny and more irritating, and he grabbed Malik by his belt hoops and unzipped his pants, stretching and rolling them off. The wet boxers had stuck to the pants, and so they rolled off, too.

Malik didn't bother waiting for the shirt, and wrapped one leg over Bakura's hip, pushing their bodies close, pressing their cocks together. The scorching water slid between them, squelching as their bodies moved, rocking against the wall.

Bakura panted as the water blistered his skin, and the steam rolled off, dizzying, as he captured Malik's arms and stretched them out against the tile, and whispered in his ear, "Fuck, Malik, sometimes I forget how big you are."

Malik chuckled, because that was in fact, the first time Bakura had admitted to that. Bakura never said it, but it was always exciting for him to lay his hands on Malik, to play with him and make him moan. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Malik's erection, slid them down over the length, and lingered at the tip, cupping and rubbing it.

The response he received was worthwhile. Malik was a loud lover, always sure to let Bakura know how much he enjoyed each stroke, lick, and thrust. Eyes squeezed shut and cheek pressed against the tile, he squirmed against Bakura, breathing fast, clearly asking for more.

So Bakura found himself slowly kneeling down. His bare knees rested against the hard bathroom tile, a reminder that he should make this quick if he wanted to avoid bruising his kneecaps. Malik grabbed his hair by the fistful, and looked down, catching his eye.

Bakura brought the whole head into his mouth at once, using his hand to guide the rest inside, inch by inch. He couldn't go very far, but Malik never complained. It pulsated in his mouth as he adjusted, and with his lips wrapped around the smooth skin, he made a sucking motion, and felt Malik tremble against him.

"Oh Gods, do that again," Malik mumbled, sounding somewhere far from him. It was hot and steamy, the water dripping into his eyes and making it hard to concentrate. It would be easier to give himself over to feeling, forget what he was doing and go at it unreserved. In this drunken state, that always worked best. He closed his eyes, gripped the base tightly, and sucked it in again and again. He licked along the edge, pressed the tip of his tongue into the tip of Malik's cock, swallowed the entire head, and panted against the moist skin, turned on by the continuous _Ah…! Ah…! Ah!_ noises coming from above him, as Malik shuddered and thrust into him.

"Bakura!" Malik shouted suddenly, his voice pleading and begging, hands still wringing Bakura's hair. "I'm going to—don't—don't stop—"

He opened his mouth wider just as Malik exploded into him, and the come was warm and salty all over his tongue. The water continued trickling all over his face, streaming into his mouth as he pulled away, and both water and come dripped down his lips, and slid off in streams. The rest, he swallowed, and then he pressed his face into Malik's thigh, still catching his breath.

"You look so fucking sexy like that," Malik said, and lowered down to kiss Bakura on the lips. "I think it's your turn."

They made it to the bedroom somehow, although Bakura couldn't remember if they had ever washed off Malik's hair dye. Still dripping wet, they dropped unceremoniously into the small bed, wrapped up in each other, grabbing arms and thighs, still hungry and as usual, only shortly appeased before going again.

Then Malik rolled onto his back, reclining against the pillows and spreading his legs.

Bakura's eyes widened. "Really?"

Malik just nodded, bending his knees and widening his legs further. It was a rare occasion that Malik wanted to be fucked, but Bakura was too excited by the prospect to have any interest in questioning it further.

Seeing Bakura's enthusiasm, Malik asked, "Shall I pretend I don't like it much?" with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Bakura scowled in response. The first time Malik had let him be on top, a few months into their most recent—partnership, or whatever it was—the moment Malik had started climbing he had sighed Bakura's name, and the exhortation had caused Bakura to come instantly, and now Malik would never, ever let him live it down.

But Bakura didn't respond further to Malik's taunt, not letting Malik's antagonism deter him. He almost wanted to be irritated, but he couldn't help the rush of warmth that spread through him as he thought of how Malik had never done it—would never do it—this way with anyone other than him. So he snatched something from under the pillow, swathed them both in the thick blankets, and proceeded to prepare Malik.

Malik laughed at a ridiculous pitch when Bakura slipped one lube-covered finger into him, and then settled for a moan at the second. When it was Bakura's cock filling him, Malik pushed up his hips into Bakura's and panted out Ah! over and over again. And when Bakura started thrusting hard and fast into him, he lost all control of his mouth, and every other word was an expletive.

"Sometimes I wonder," Bakura said after he'd finished and pulled out, "how you became so acculturated with Egyptian curse words. I mean, I'm sure no one ever swore around you, and it's not like you moved out of the tomb until you were what, almost a teenager?"

Malik smirked, and covered his hands in lube. The motion of his slick fingers over his own cock was a sight that always had Bakura licking his lips in anticipation, and he lay back against the covers.

"Well, I'm nineteen now," Malik replied simply.

Bakura wrapped both legs around Malik's thighs and grabbed his hips, guiding him as Malik slid in slowly. Despite Malik's size, Bakura didn't need the preparation Malik always did when things were the other way around, but Malik still always made sure to use plenty of lube.

"Still, though," Bakura finally said, as Malik started thrusting, pulling back enough to make him wince, and shoving back in so hard that Bakura was already rolling his head back and clinging, white-knuckled, to Malik's arms. "Where did you—ah, learn all these words?"

Malik just smirked again, and a few moments later, Bakura escaped to some sort of plateau where he lost himself, and it was just thrust after thrust after thrust, rhythmic and rough, and he didn't even realize it when he stopped shouting in Japanese, and Malik was giving him a pointed look through sweat-slicked bangs.

"How do you think?" Malik laughed, and Bakura couldn't care less if he sounded like an idiot, spouting in Ancient Egyptian.

"Fuck," was all he mustered, and then there was no more talking.

* * *

The owner would still be out for at least another twenty minutes, but that didn't stop Bakura from eyeing the door and turning abruptly anytime he heard a noise.

"Relax," Malik said, sauntering through the aisles one by one and grabbing whatever caught his fancy. "The security guard who works on Tuesdays is lazy as hell. The last thing she wants to do is stare at an empty store for ten hours."

Bakura ran his fingertips over the metal register, judging the lock. Even thousands of years later, the thrill of larceny set something off in him. Call it primal, but the feeling he'd had while robbing tombs in Ancient Egypt was the same stir he felt now. His fingers shook imperceptibly as he jammed the crowbar into the register and pried it open with a sharp _pop!_ followed by the jangle of yen coins as he pulled open the drawer.

He unzipped the money belt around his hips and stuffed as many bills as possible into the belt, before neatly folding more inside hidden coat pockets. The register was a bit bare for his taste, but he didn't dare to clear the whole thing. That would be a dead giveaway of a break-in.

When Bakura glanced around for Malik, he noticed that the boy was admiring his own reflection in the refrigerated aisle, the beam of his flashlight bouncing against the glass. It was an unnecessary beacon, something that could draw attention to them, causing a person passing by outside to get suspicious. But Malik's intense aversion to the dark wouldn't allow him to rob a place in pitch black, so Bakura didn't bother arguing with him about it, allowing him to have the metaphorical security blanket.

"Forgot to do my eyebrows," Malik muttered, eyeing his indigo eyebrows, stark against the newly-dyed black hair.

Bakura rolled his eyes, slipping through the aisles to look for anything else he might need. He was surprised that Malik had chosen such a dark color, as far from the original blond as possible. When Bakura had awoken that afternoon, he'd done a double-take at the shock of black hair on the bedspread beside him. But Malik was right about one thing: it was, in fact, sexy as hell.

The other thing he'd noticed that morning was the fact that the moment he'd hopped out of the shower after awakening, the letter was missing from the kitchen counter. Malik must have hidden it before Bakura could spot it again. Which reminded him briefly about the contents of the message, and Ishizu's urgent tone.

"Malik, what was that letter all about yesterday?" Bakura asked, casually visiting the snacks aisle, and curling his lips at the types of food he hardly recognized.

"What letter?" Malik didn't turn to face Bakura. Through the reflective glass, Bakura caught his frown.

Bakura scowled. "The one marked from Egypt. I asked you about it last night but you were apparently too distracted to answer me," he remarked dryly.

Malik's reflection through the glass was impassive. "It's nothing that should concern you."

"If I don't know what it is, how could I know whether it should concern me?"

In retrospect, it shouldn't have bothered Bakura that Malik wanted to keep something hidden between them. Malik often found it hard to share personal things, and Bakura understood because he was the same. But it was something else that drove Bakura forward, something beyond curiosity, something bordering on…protectiveness.

Malik slowly turned around to face him, and Bakura didn't miss the way he held the crowbar tighter in his right hand. "Trust me, it doesn't."

He felt Malik's breath on his face, taking in a slow, deep breath through his nose. Bakura lowered his voice. "Why don't you just tell me?"

"Drop it, Bakura," Malik said quietly. "I don't want to talk about it."

But Bakura persisted, leaning forward and saying, "From the tone of that letter, it sounded important—"

And suddenly, Malik was lunging towards him, his empty hand facing palm out, almost as if he were attempting to shove him.

Bakura's reflexes, long honed from avoiding traps in tombs, kicked in and he managed to spin out of Malik's path. But he was so shocked by Malik's actions that he stumbled, and then he was falling backwards. He slammed against the aisle of packaged foods behind him, crashing to the floor, breaking bags of chips and boxes of candy as the stand collapsed. The pain in his back was sharp. He sat dazed for a moment—Malik had never even come close to going after him physically, not ever, not even back in Battle City when Malik had been more violent and their partnership had been more fraught. When he glanced up, Malik looked furious.

"What the hell was that?" Bakura asked, struggling to stand up.

"I fucking told you to drop it," Malik spat. "I said I didn't want to talk about it."

Bakura groaned as he took a few shaky steps.

With that, Malik suddenly smashed his crowbar into the refrigerator glass beside him, startling Bakura, and then he reached for several bottles of energy drinks from the shattered refrigerated aisle. He gave Bakura another sour look, and asked, "Are you about ready to leave, then?"

"Yeah," Bakura said, winded.

What the hell was going on? He couldn't place Malik's anger. He'd never seen him so furious.

Bakura stumbled out of the store, and as the cold night air cleared his thoughts, he groaned again. As they climbed onto the motorcycle, Bakura awkwardly wrapped his arms around Malik, wanting at this moment to be as far as he could from the boy. Malik revved up the engine, and they sped off toward the apartment. Not a single star was in the sky that night, Bakura observed distractedly. Not a single winking face.

But now his thoughts went back to the steal.

For one thing, the store manager would be mad. They never left a mess. And now there would be evidence. At least he still managed to grab a good few thousand yen. He patted his coat pockets with one hand, feeling the distinct bills of paper, and then he reached around for his belt.

The belt…

And then Bakura cursed under his breath.

He'd somehow managed to lose the belt between stuffing the bills into it and getting into that fight with Malik. And he'd hidden the majority of the bills in the belt, not the pockets.

"Stop fidgeting around so much," Malik suddenly turned to yell at him. "It's much harder to drive this thing with you moving around."

"Fuck you," was all Bakura said, but he was certain that Malik had already turned his head back into the wind, and hadn't heard it.

The rest of the drive was silent. And when Bakura unsteadily stepped off the bike, he realized something. Something he should have read so clearly even last night.

It wasn't that Malik had been too distracted to pay attention to what he was asking.

It's that he hadn't wanted to listen.


	2. Chapter 2

Malik had been trying very hard all month to forget the date leading up to his birthday, but he managed to remember it nonetheless. December 23rd also happened to be the blasted emperor's birth date, and in Japan, that was a bigger deal than Christmas. Not a single news channel had missed the date, and neither had Malik.

But as he lounged in the deep, gardenia-style bathtub, blasting music from a small speaker set on the corner of the tiled tub, breathing in the waxy smell of juniper from a nearby candle, he found that he didn't care. At least Bakura didn't know his birthdate, and he intended to keep it that way.

"Fifty thousand yen!" a voice erupted from outside the bathroom.

A second later, Bakura came bounding into the tiled room, his red hair sparkling under the fluorescent lights and the veins in his neck straining.

"Fifty fucking thousand yen," he repeated. "Do you have anything to say for this?"

Before Malik could react, Bakura tossed a newspaper at the edge of the tub, and crossed his arms. Malik indulged him by picking up the paper slowly and unfurling it. On the front page, a picture of the convenience store from last night was blown up.

FAMILY MART VANDALISM AND ROBBERY: 50,000 YEN ALMOST STOLEN

Malik scanned the contents leisurely, getting his wet fingerprints all over the paper. "You didn't tell me you left most of the cash at the store," he said calmly.

"I would've told you if you hadn't been so pissed at the time."

"Well, whose fault was that?"

Bakura bristled and strode toward the tub. "Your fault, for freaking out over absolutely nothing and trashing the whole place."

Malik ignored him, leaning out of the tub slightly.

"Well, out of the two of us, I wasn't expecting the tomb robber to walk out with the least amount of cash," Malik said, flashing Bakura a frosty grin. "You should be more careful next time."

"I was being careful, up until you—hey, what are you doing?"

Malik had pressed an edge of the newspaper to the burning candle, and the entire thing immediately went up in flames, an incendiary trail snaking across the page until only charred bits remained on the white tiles.

"No need to keep it to remind us of your failure," Malik said, a grin still on his lips, as he lay back against the tub and closed his eyes. It was clear that he considered the topic closed, and that Bakura should bother with other things besides standing around accosting Malik. But Bakura had no such plans. He was perplexed with Malik's attitude. He'd rolled their conversation around in his head all night, and had come up empty.

Yes, he'd pushed Malik's limits. Yes, he'd pried when he was told not to. But what could be so important about that letter that had made Malik snap so violently?

Bakura pulled a cigarette from his back pocket, lowered himself to the edge of the tub, and lit the cigarette with the tip of the candle. He wasn't much of a smoker, but he'd recently picked up the habit from Malik. When he gave a short cough, the smoke still such a stranger in his body, Malik's eyes flipped open and he glanced at Bakura.

Their eyes met, and the reaction was immediate, as if Malik had merely been feigning relaxation. The dim light widened Malik's pupils until Bakura was staring into two black holes, two black stingers of an arched scorpion, framed by wet black hair. The rest of Malik's glistening brown body was arched in the same way, on the brink of movement. Tense; just so damned tense that Bakura wondered if he'd feel the slick, hard scales of a scorpion if he reached out right now.

In fact, he did reach out. Leaning forward, Bakura placed a fingertip on Malik's jaw line, and traced it down until he reached his jutting collarbones. His skin was hot. Burning like a fever.

Malik's lips curved into a smile. "Tell me, Bakura," he said. "Do you care for me?"

Bakura was thrown by the question. "No," he said.

Silence pressed in on them as Bakura brought the cigarette to his lips again. He eyed the rigid curve of Malik's nose, the full lips, the long eyelashes. Any other thief might have been enraptured by the gold that captured his neck and dangled from his ears, but the only thing that interested Bakura was the rich expanse of skin. And those bright eyes.

"Do you want me to?" Bakura continued, releasing a puff of smoke.

"Yes." Malik's eyes flashed, and Bakura reeled, shocked at Malik's open and blunt answer. More slowly, Malik repeated, "Yes."

But Bakura didn't have time to process it because then Malik was climbing out of the tub, reaching across the small space between them and wrapping his fingers into Bakura's hair, dripping water all over Bakura's pants, and making a huge, feverish mess of Bakura's lips as the two collapsed onto the tiled floor.

* * *

The bartender pushed a small shot glass across the sleek countertop toward Bakura. Before he could reach for it, Malik's hand shot out and he downed the drink in one gulp.

Bakura's eyebrows rose. "Is that your fourth?"

Malik smiled. "I'm just getting started."

The nightclub lights hopped across them in sharp, neon bursts, and Bakura watched as Malik's lips moved in darkness and then in purple hues. The entire place thrummed with techno music, down to the floor, through the countertop, reaching into Bakura's ribcage and shaping his heartbeat. The place was upscale, if judged by the granite counters and modern design, but nothing could staunch the scent of free-flowing alcohol, thick as the oxygen in the air they were breathing.

When Bakura turned, he found Malik close by his hip, leaning in. And suddenly, there was something thick and hard against his thigh.

"Is that—"

"Relax, it's not what you think," Malik said, and his teeth shone white in the dark lights.

Bakura scoffed, but a second later, it dawned on him. The tip was square and far too hard to be anything else.

"You shouldn't have brought it."

Malik's smile only grew larger. "Just staying prepared."

With that, Malik edged away and the muzzle of the gun no longer touched Bakura's thigh, but the knowledge that he still carried the damned thing did nothing to lift Bakura's mood. The thought that Malik was prepared put Bakura on edge. Prepared for what, exactly?

"How great do you think their security system is?" a voice murmured in his ear.

He gave Malik a sidelong look. "I don't want to test it."

Malik looked like a child whose ice cream had just flopped onto the sidewalk. "You're no fun," he said.

"And you're just asking to get kicked out." On any usual night, Bakura would have been more receptive to a quick steal from the nightclub's cash register, but this wasn't the night. Malik had been petulant since Bakura had tossed the newspaper at him—really, since the previous night's outburst—and the playful daredevil in him was just a cover, Bakura could tell. Even now, with four shots in him, Malik wasn't any looser than he'd been earlier tonight in the bathtub. Frankly, even the sex hadn't loosened him.

A couple hours after having made each other pant and scream on the bathroom floor, Bakura had walked into the living room to see Malik sitting next to a pile of yen, a lighter held to the corner of one bill, his eyes looking glazed as he watched it slowly burn. In retrospect Bakura should have just turned around and walked out of the room without a word, as one does when they walk in on something that is clearly crazy. Instead he'd brought up the letters again. Malik wasn't acting like himself, and he _knew_ it had something to do with those letters. But it hadn't gone much better than the previous time he'd tried to discuss the letters with Malik. Malik had only glared at him, spat an insult, then turned away as if to dismiss him. Bakura hadn't been much in the mood for another violent confrontation, so he'd simply retorted with his own insult, then wandered into the kitchen to grab something to eat.

But an uneasy tension had hung in the air between them since the non-conversation, and though Malik had agreed to come out with him tonight, now, at the bar, things hadn't really improved.

When Bakura turned back to the bartender, he found him attending to another customer a few barstools away. They were chatting, so Bakura gave them a few minutes. But when Bakura raised his hand to get the bartender's attention, he still received no response.

"Hey, I'd like to order a drink," Bakura said loudly enough to cut through the music.

The bartender continued to ignore him. Bakura turned, wondering what the hell this customer was doing to hog the bartender's attention.

The man on the barstool was wearing a mid-thigh leather coat, his face obscured by long, black hair. The scarf and gloves suggested he was only here for a quick drink; otherwise he would have removed them. He must have just come in, because Bakura had been here for almost an hour, and this was the first he'd seen of him. As the bartender slid a drink toward him, the man placed a good number of bills on the counter—far too many for one drink, Bakura thought—and then, as if feeling Bakura's eyes on him, glanced over.

His mouth was a thin line, his eyes like black beetles. His gaze passed over Bakura as if he weren't even there, and then he was speaking to a younger man who walked up to the counter. Bakura watched them exchange brief words. Somewhere in that conversation, the word "Sukiya" came up, Bakura could have sworn it. The man on the barstool looked upset by the exchange, and then stood up to weave through the crowd.

"Did you still want that drink, sir?"

Bakura glanced up, startled. He'd forgotten about the bartender. "Yeah, I'd like a—"

Suddenly, he was grabbed by the collar of his coat and pulled up from the barstool. "No, you don't," Malik said, hauling him up.

Bakura wrenched himself out of Malik's grip. "What the hell? Yes, I do. If I'm going to enjoy being here, I might as well—"

Malik looked at him, bright-eyed. "Think about what you just saw. I think drinks should be the last thing on your mind right now."

Bakura snorted, because just a minute ago Malik had been downing drinks like no tomorrow.

"I just saw a guy buy a drink and leave," he said, giving Malik the most dismissive look he could muster. "I'd say it's hardly worth getting out of my seat."

Malik's eyes were still feverish. He stared at Bakura as if patiently explaining two-plus-two. "How much money did that guy lay on the table?"

"I don't know. Who cares?"

"Ten thousand."

Bakura's face went blank. "Yen?"

Malik rolled his eyes. "No, fucking rupees. Yes, yen."

"For a drink?" Bakura tried very hard to wrap his mind around the thought of leaving that much money for a single drink. Even with a tip, that was overboard. And if he traced Malik's train of thought correctly, then the man was absolutely loaded.

Malik must have witnessed the realization streaking across Bakura's mind, because he suddenly leaned in very close, face flushed and smile so wide it nearly swallowed up his whole face, and said, "Let's have some fun."

* * *

The tile was a deep, gleaming black. Decoration to suit the rest of the nightclub, no doubt. Thankfully, the bathroom didn't sport dim lights, otherwise the two men who had gathered in a corner of the room would have been harder to spot.

As Bakura entered the restroom, the heated argument between them dropped like a flat brick and they eyed him warily. The man in all black with hair covering his face gave him a suspicious look before tearing away his gaze and muttering something to his younger companion.

Bakura made a beeline for the urinals, looking as natural as though he actually had to take a piss. Malik would join him in a few minutes, making their entrance look unplanned. Bakura chose a urinal far from the men, giving them space to talk. As he unbuckled his pants, a prickly feeling gathered at the back of his neck. Something ancient in him was balking at what he'd just agreed to do. Unnecessary, the ancient side of him chided. Stupid, he spat.

But it was too late now. Malik's feverish eyes had penetrated his reluctance, made him want to give in and indulge him, as usual. He'd always had trouble refusing Malik, ever since the very first day they met—even when what Malik was asking of him was ridiculous and unreasonable and dangerous for him, even when what Malik wanted was detrimental to Bakura's own plans and goals. And now Bakura's heart was racing with anticipation, and he somehow felt as if he were about to drive a knife into his own arm.

As if on cue, the restroom door opened. A rush of techno thrummed through the bathroom before the door slammed shut, and Bakura heard footfalls behind him as he buckled up his pants. He chanced a glance and saw Malik approach the urinals. The face-splitting smile was gone, replaced with cool determination.

Finished, Bakura hurried toward the row of granite sinks. The counter was directly in the path of the two men, who had reduced their conversation to monosyllables. Conducting himself, Bakura settled for the image of a purposeful yet tipsy club-goer, shuffling forward as though he couldn't wait to get back to the music.

Suddenly, Bakura's foot gave way and his shoulder smacked into that of the man with hair across his face.

"Oh, I'm sorry—" he slurred. "I'm so sorry."

In the split second that it took the man to turn toward him, Bakura's hand had already reached into his coat and grabbed the wallet.

He continued to apologize when suddenly the man grabbed Bakura's shoulder in a tight grip and twisted until the material of Bakura's jacket burned against his skin.

"Watch yourself," he said. His eyes were like the pits of rotten peaches. If Bakura hadn't been so seasoned at this game, he would have felt fear. Instead, he faked it, trembling and nodding at him.

"Just—just lost my step is all," he mumbled.

The tight grip on his shoulder loosened, and Bakura edged away, thinking he was in the clear now. The wallet in his pocket was burning like a hot brick, and he just wanted a clean getaway. But when he turned, the man's older companion suddenly spoke.

"Wait. Turn out your pockets."

And then fear sliced through Bakura.

Until now, Bakura's stay in Roppongi had been unblemished. Short of the newspaper clipping he'd shown Malik earlier, they'd never been spotted nor confronted about their criminal activities. Until now, everything had been clean and easy. Everything had gone as smoothly as the sun sliding over the city each morning. And the reason for that streak was dumb in its simplicity: they knew their limits.

And what happened next sure as hell surpassed them.

Bakura licked his bottom lip, reaching into the empty pocket and pulling it out to show the two men. The companion nodded, and then made a hurry-up hand motion to indicate he should turn out the other one. As Bakura reached into the other pocket, delaying upending it to reveal that there was a wallet indeed inside it, a sudden click made all three turn around. In unison, their attention snapped to the far corner of the room.

And came face to face with Malik's gun.

Malik was wearing a wide smile, and as soon as he'd gotten their attention, he pointed the gun toward the man's companion, walking forward as he did so.

"I wouldn't ask him to do that, if I were you."

"You're working together," the man with rotten peaches for eyes said. He didn't seem surprised, merely curious. Glancing at Bakura, he said, "And you can cut the drunken act fuckery. I can see past it."

If the earlier discovery hadn't sobered Bakura yet, this certainly did. He dropped the wallet back into his pocket. His mind, on overdrive, analyzed every exit in the room and came to the conclusion that there was only one. And then there was only one thought clinging to him: Fuck you, Malik. Fuck fuck fuck.

"I'm going to give you ten seconds to untie your shoelaces, walk over to the urinals, and tie each other to them," Malik said, standing next to Bakura.

The request was strange, even by their standards, but Bakura refrained from glancing at Malik and telling him so. The younger man glowered at Malik, not making a move, but the man with dark eyes bent down and began untying his shoelaces. Bakura saw a muscle working in his jaw as he struggled with the laces, and he noticed that the man was missing part of one of his fingers, making the task somewhat difficult for him.

"That was stupid of you two," the man said, "to do this in a public bathroom."

Bakura silently agreed. His heart was thrumming fast enough to match the techno's tempo. He had to remind himself to unclench his fists to prevent his fingernails from drawing blood. If anyone walked in right now…well, there was no _if_ at this point, but _when_ someone walked in, as someone surely would, they would have even more trouble.

"I suggest you spend the better part of your energy tying those shoelaces, not talking," Malik replied. The gun still hung loosely around his fingers, and he spun it around one finger as if the gravity of this situation hadn't hit him yet.

Bakura tried to catch his eye, to silently ask him to tone it down. These men weren't stupid. They would report everything to the police after they left. In fact, the thorough examination he was getting from the man with dark eyes indicated that he was already committing every detail to memory. His eyes were so sharp that he'd probably already gleaned the year and date Malik was born with that look.

Ten minutes later, Bakura was thanking every god under the sun that no one had come in yet. After managing to fulfill Malik's request, the two men glared at them from the urinals. If this situation weren't so serious, Bakura would have laughed. Watching two grown men tie themselves up with shoelaces to a urinal wasn't something Bakura witnessed every day.

"Good," Malik said once they were done. "That wasn't so hard, was it."

He whirled the gun around again as he neared them, brandishing it beneath their noses as though waving around a jar of spice. Bakura's jaw tightened. Every ancient part of him screamed for him to haul Malik out of here before he did something even more stupid.

"Bastard," the younger man spat. "Do you get some sick pleasure out of this?"

"Me?" Malik's eyebrows rose. "No. I'd just as soon steal your money and be done here, but then you'd follow us."

He leaned down and placed a finger on the taught shoelace binding the man to the urinal. "But this," he said, smiling, "prevents that."

What happened next was so fast that afterwards Bakura recalled only flashes of it.

The older man reached into his boot. A burst of red exploded when he tore his wrist against the shoelace. He grinned, and then his hand came up and tightened around a pistol.

He aimed at Malik.

And then a flash of blood. Bakura stood transfixed as it splattered across Malik's front, splashing across the younger man beside them, spilling across the black tile. It was a single shot. Clean. Loud. It reverberated across the bathroom corners, and Bakura thought it would deafen him.

"Malik."

That was the single word that left his lips.

He crashed forward, suddenly able to move, when Malik slowly turned toward him, stricken, holding his gun.

"I didn't—I didn't—" he said, breathless.

And then Bakura saw the blank look on the older man's face as he crumpled forward. He sank to his knees like a doll, still held up by the laces on his wrists. Malik's gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

At that, Bakura snapped into action.

"Pick that up," he snapped. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Malik couldn't seem to comprehend what had happened. Bakura grabbed his arm, picked up the gun, and drove him toward the door. Someone had surely heard. The gun didn't have a muffler. Someone would barge in at any moment. He chanced a look backwards and saw the younger man, still tied to the urinal, give him a look so repugnant that it stilled Bakura's heart. He mouthed something at him, but Bakura couldn't hear it over the techno music.

Before they could reach it, the door burst open.

It was a panicked teenager. Bakura shoved past him quickly, hauling Malik like a child behind him and tossing the gun inside his jacket. There were several people looking in as they left the bathroom, but Bakura ignored their stunned faces. He pushed through the throng. People turned to glare at them as they stomped through, but Bakura was only focused on reaching the exit.

The burst of clean, cold air outside shocked him. He felt like a prisoner who had finally escaped his jail cell. Sullied, sick to his stomach, but free.

"Bakura, wait—" Malik said behind him.

Bakura realized he was walking too fast for Malik to keep up. He merely barked, "Shut up," and kept walking.

When they got to Malik's bike, Bakura dropped into the front seat and said, "Keys."

Malik numbly handed them over. There was no fight left in him. He was like a broken doll. He got on the back of the bike, tightening his hands around Bakura's waist, as if holding him tighter could help somehow.

Bakura revved up the engine and tore out of the parking lot.

His last recollection of that moment was the bright ambulance light that rushed towards them as they sped out.


	3. Chapter 3

It was sometime later that night when Malik became aware of hands wringing his hair and the slap of ammonia against his nostrils. He fidgeted under the harsh treatment of his hair follicles, but Bakura merely snapped at him and shoved more dye on his scalp. The ammonia burned his eyes and streaked his face.

"Is this necessary?" he muttered, knowing that he probably sounded sullen and hoarse. Having to shout over the music earlier had tempered his voice.

"Unless you want to be arrested the next time you walk into a nightclub, then yes, I'm afraid it's necessary."

Malik tried to look up but was bludgeoned with caustic dye at his eyes again.

"Did you dye yours?"

"Yes."

"What color?"

"Black."

Malik couldn't imagine such a distinct change to Bakura's hair.

"What color is mine?"

"Brown. Hard to do much else with it at the moment, with how dark you were before."

Malik fell silent as Bakura worked. Malik counted the number of ticks from the clock hanging on the wall. It must have been late. Or very early. Honestly, Malik had stopped measuring his life in hours long ago.

When Bakura's hand crossed his face again, Malik pressed his fingertips against it, stilling Bakura's hand. He felt Bakura pause. Slowly, Malik opened his eyes and was lost in a pair of chilling sienna irises. Bakura's hair was damp and dark. His lips were pursed. Every part of him looked assertive save one thing. His eyebrows betrayed him, curved with pity. He was angry, Malik knew that from the way he shoved and cursed and wrung his hair, but there was mercy in his face. He didn't want to be angry.

"Bakura," Malik whispered. He placed both palms on Bakura's face, bringing him forward. "Don't be mad."

The curve of his eyebrows deepened. For a brief moment, Malik saw himself as he was in Bakura's eyes. The taunting, belligerent, stupid child that he was. The reckless asshole who had just shot a man in cold blood. He couldn't deny Bakura that anger. But he had to know. He had to know why he'd acted so recklessly—

Malik pressed his lips to Bakura's.

His mouth was cold. Malik grabbed his shirt and hung on, reaching for comfort. If he hadn't been breaking before, he was breaking now, and he needed Bakura more than he could say. Tentatively, Bakura pressed back. His hands brought Malik closer until he felt Bakura's damp hair tickle his neck. Malik made a small noise. Whether it was a whimper of happiness or sorrow, he didn't know. All he knew was that he needed to deepen this moment. He needed it to distract him.

At once, Bakura broke off.

"What—" Malik reached for him again.

"No," Bakura said firmly as he stood up.

"What's wrong?"

Bakura shook his head. "I can't do this."

"Why not?" Malik stood up.

"I can't let you do this to yourself anymore," Bakura said. "And I can't let you do this to me."

He turned away before Malik could see the look on his face. He imagined he saw pity again.

"Do what? Where are you going?"

Bakura didn't answer. He snatched a jacket, grabbed his keys from a stand and left, slamming the door behind him.

Finally, with Bakura gone, Malik let himself feel it all. He closed his eyes, feeling the caustic sting of tears in them. Something else stung behind his eyelids as well, gripping him with such force that a sob escaped him. He ran his fingers through his wet hair, pulling at the roots as another sob wracked his body. Bakura's presence had been keeping it all at bay. Now, he cried freely.

If only she could see him now. The disappointment across her beautiful face. The curve of her black eyebrows, the way Bakura's had curved.

Malik picked up the ceramic bowl with leftover dye in it and slammed it across the room. Brown dye splattered across the walls, reminding Malik of the man's blood.

He sobbed harder, and somewhere far away, he imagined that maybe she could see him. And she could see that he cared after all.

* * *

In the morning, he went to find Bakura.

As he trekked the quiet, snowy streets, his wet hair got caught in a gust of wind. He didn't register the cold. He was surprised he'd even remembered to wash out the dye, trudging into the shower at some ungodly hour of the night after his body had refused to sob anymore. If he'd fallen asleep on the tile floor, he didn't remember it.

His feet seemed to have a decent knowledge of Bakura's whereabouts, because they took him to a dive bar a dozen streets away from the apartment. Outside the bar, he stared up at the crooked name sign but couldn't be bothered to decipher the string of Japanese letters. Someone opened the door as Malik stood there, and he numbly entered as the customer left.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimly-lit bar. He was expecting to find a shock of bright hair. Instead, he spotted a dark blot among the crowd.

Without waiting for him to notice, Malik sat down at the barstool beside him.

"Hey," he whispered. His voice was still hoarse. His entire face must have been unrecognizable at this point. He couldn't figure out whose jacket he was wearing either.

"That's mine," Bakura responded without even looking over. His hand was curled around an empty glass.

"It's the first thing I could find." He meant to apologize for more than merely wearing Bakura's jacket, but that could probably wait until he'd gathered his thoughts a little better. Besides, he realized—since he was wearing Bakura's jacket, that meant Bakura must be wearing his.

"How did you find me?"

In retrospect, Bakura probably still wanted to be alone. He'd have come back to the apartment if he didn't. He didn't seem mad, though.

"I don't know."

Bakura still refused to look at him. "Do you want a shot?"

"No. I don't want to see alcohol ever again."

Bakura let out a huff that sounded like a cautious laugh. "You'll probably change your mind in a week."

"Yeah, probably." Malik didn't want to make small talk. He wanted to know if he'd broken whatever it was he'd had with Bakura. He hadn't even realized they'd had something. It was just sex. It was just stealing things together. It was just spending every night curled up in each other's presence and realizing that they somehow fit.

"Are you going to come home?"

And as soon as Malik asked, the unspoken domesticity slammed him hard. Come home. As if their little broken down apartment with its broken stove and crooked clock was more than just a place to sleep.

Bakura finally looked at him.

It was clear that he'd struggled the previous night, too. Not like Malik. He hadn't cried, no. But he had crawled into a cave of his own with a metaphorical demon or two until his eyes had become red-rimmed and hooded.

"That depends," he finally said, "on whether or not you're planning to do that again."

The Bakura that Malik had known during Battle City might not have objected so much. That Bakura might have even joined him the previous night, Malik thought. But then he considered it more and realized that really, even back then, Bakura hadn't liked to buy trouble if there wasn't a good reason for it. He'd done what was necessary to avenge his people, and no more. Well, except...except where Malik was concerned. Malik was always an exception. When Malik asked him to take a risk for his sake, he did. Stab yourself, get the locator cards, stake your body in a duel to protect me...Malik commanded, and Bakura always did, no matter the risk.

And now Malik had dragged him into a mess, again, like he always had, despite knowing that Bakura liked looking for trouble even less now, after having suffered a devastating defeat, and no longer having vengeance to chase. Bakura didn't like to meddle unless he had a reason, and for the hell of it wasn't a very good one. And it was Malik's fault he'd been led away from that. Again.

"I won't."

Bakura didn't look convinced. The corner of his mouth tipped into an ugly grin.

"Care to tell me what this is all about, then?"

Malik said nothing. Those words sliced into his skin, and he was surprised at how easily it hurt, how he'd built an exoskeleton that could be cracked open with a mere inquiry. He wondered what Bakura's expression would look like when he found out, and the thought made him sick.

"Let's get out of here," he said instead. "The smell hurts my head."

The excuse was thin but believable. The air smelled like stale smoke and cheap alcohol, mixed in with something spicy to cover it all up.

They left the bar, with the air just barely thinner between them than when Malik had come in. His hands itched as they walked. He couldn't understand the tic until he realized he wanted to touch Bakura. A brush across his jacket, a hand on his arm. He was so used to being comfortable around Bakura that he'd forgotten what it was like to feel the need to keep his distance.

As they rounded the corner towards the apartment complex, Malik noticed that the postman was delivering mail. Malik turned away sharply. Bakura noticed, and his gaze shifted to where Malik had been looking.

Then Bakura was striding towards the mailbox.

"Wait—" Malik reached out as if to grab Bakura, but his hand froze in midair and hung there for several seconds before dropping to his side.

Moments later a white rectangle was being slapped against Malik's chest. "Open it. Now."

"Bakura—"

"Malik, I swear, I'll turn around and walk away right now." Anger flashed in his eyes like lightning cutting through a dark storm, and Malik knew he was serious.

Malik sighed, resigned. He supposed he owed Bakura something, after all the trouble he'd dragged him into. And he didn't want him to run off again, to leave him alone with his thoughts. But still, fear twisted in his chest, and he stalled for time. "Fine." His mouth formed a thin line. "Inside, though."

Bakura's fist tightened, crumpling the letter a little before he snatched it away from Malik and marched to their door. As Bakura twisted the key in the lock, Malik joined him, and they stood side by side as the door swung open.

Malik sucked in breath. He heard Bakura gasp as well. Their apartment was normally messy, and several things were broken, mostly by Malik's hand, but what had happened here was unmistakable.

The place had been trashed. Bottles and plates had been smashed, the glass strewn across the carpet. The table had been upended. It looked as if drawers had been dumped out onto the floor.

Bakura's eyes darted back and forth, scanning the room, then came to rest on the symbol that had been crudely painted onto the wall, jagged lines encased in a diamond shape. He almost smacked his forehead. He remembered now. The partly missing finger. The large amount of cash paid to the bartender. He'd been stupid not to put it together before. He didn't know a lot about modern Japanese culture, but he'd made it a point to educate himself a bit about other criminals in the area. He should have known.

Bakura whispered a single word under his breath.

Malik whipped his head around. "What?"

But Bakura knew Malik had heard him, and that he recognized the name of the crime syndicate he'd spoken. Bakura gave him a hard stare in response.

"Are you sure?" Malik asked, his eyes pleading, as if he were begging Bakura to tell him he'd heard wrong.

"Yes, I'm damn well sure." Bakura grabbed Malik by the arm, dragging him through the door. "That guy you- do you have any idea what you've gotten us into?"

Malik went still, looking pale, as Bakura slammed the door behind them.

Bakura looked around the room again. He recognized this for what it was: a warning. He wasn't sure why they'd even been lucky enough to get a warning, after what Malik had done. Maybe, in a small bit of luck—if one could call it that—the men who were now attempting to exact revenge on them were inexperienced, possibly lower ranking members of the gang. He supposed that made sense—otherwise, Malik would likely be the one dead right now, not the man they'd left in the bathroom. Bakura shivered involuntarily at the thought.

He glanced over the damage again, the scuff marks on the floor and the chair broken into kindling, and he saw the scene as it must have happened unfolding in his mind. The men must have come to kill them, but, finding that their intended victims weren't home, their emotions had gotten the best of them, and they'd trashed the place, unable to resist leaving proof of their visit. Bakura was quite sure that a more competent, important member of this particular gang would not have left this evidence, and would instead have waited, and struck when they least expected it.

But the fact that they probably weren't dealing with top masterminds didn't exactly comfort him. He knew the men could, and probably would, come back at any time, and they would be out for blood. Bakura knew about the hunger for vengeance, and knew a few smashed cups and a marked wall wouldn't sate these men. And being members of the crime syndicate, the men had access to much more powerful people and resources to help them get what they wanted.

Bakura finally shook himself out of his thoughts, reaching over to flip the light switch near the front door out of habit—Malik liked the lights on all the time, even during the day. But the snap of the switch wasn't followed by illumination as it usually was. Bakura sighed, realizing that either all their light bulbs had been smashed, or their power had been cut. He turned to Malik.

"We need to salvage what we can, pack up, and leave," Bakura said. But Malik didn't seem to hear him. He slowly sank to his knees in the entryway.

He'd never cried in front of Bakura before, but now, he couldn't help himself. Everything was happening too fast, everything was going wrong all at once. His mind spun out of control, and the brown and gray colors of their dingy apartment swirled together before his eyes, and not just because of the distortion from the tears that were gathering in his eyes. There was a buzzing in his ears, and as it grew louder, he felt lightheaded and strange, only distantly aware that Bakura was now shaking his shoulder. Then everything went black.

The next time he was aware of anything, he was lying in bed next to Bakura. It was dark out, a moonless night making sure no light filtered through the window, but the bedroom was dimly illuminated by two small candles, one on each night stand on either side of the bed. His first thought was that Bakura had remembered, Bakura had made sure he wouldn't wake up in the dark.

He turned his face to the side. Bakura's hand had been resting lightly on the top of his head, but when Malik came to, Bakura snapped his hand back, the sympathetic look on his face quickly arranging itself into a scowl.

"I should have just left you here."

Malik looked away. "You should have."

Bakura sighed, sounding weary. "I already packed what I could. There wasn't much left."

Malik struggled to sit up. "I'm alright. Let's go."

But Bakura's hand pressed into his chest and shoved him back against the bed. "I meant what I said before."

"I already said I'd tell you, so I will." Malik's words were slow, measured carefully, each one like a drop of blood splattering onto a magical artifact, sealing a promise, completing the spell.

Bakura said nothing, just stared at him, expectant.

But then Malik seemed to lose his nerve and looked away again. "But is now really the time? You said we needed to get out of here, and fuck, I don't even know how long it's been since I—what happened, anyways?"

"You were catatonic or something, I couldn't get you to respond or move. I had to drag you in here—you were dead weight. I even thought about calling someone, but...I really don't think we can afford to be noticed by authorities right now. Anyways, I figured you were just in shock or whatever, probably just fainted." When Malik was still silent after his explanation, Bakura growled, menacing, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. "I'm done answering questions now and I'm done with you stalling. I can get up and leave right now."

By then, Malik knew he wouldn't really do it. He supposed that was why he owed him an answer. He took a deep breath, and tried to think of how to start. "It's almost my birthday," he finally said.

"I know."

Malik sat up again, gaping at him. "How?"

Bakura shrugged a single shoulder and gave him a sardonic grin, but it was twisted and unhappy. "I told you I was done answering questions."

"Well, if you're such a know-it-all, I guess you know why that might bother me a little," Malik said tartly. It was easy to allow himself to fall back into their usual arguments and banter, forgetting about the danger hanging over their heads, forgetting about the confession Bakura was demanding, forgetting what he'd visited on Bakura and what he'd done and how that was why he owed him, forgetting about the situation in Egypt and how he'd been using Bakura to avoid thinking about it.

But Bakura wasn't having any of it. "You can't expect me to believe that's what all of this has been about. The letters—"

Malik shook his head. Thunder crashed outside, and Malik wondered when it had started raining. "Alright, the letters." Malik took another deep breath, his muscles tensing as he steeled himself. "I can—I can—" He started gasping for breath.

Malik started when he felt warmth against his lower back, not high enough to touch his scars, but just above the waist of his jeans. Bakura's hand had drifted over, sneaking underneath his shirt, his fingers stroking his spine, for once freely offering physical affection when sex wasn't involved. Malik looked at him, a question in his eyes.

"I lied before," Bakura said simply. "When I said I didn't—"

A loud crash interrupted the moment.

The sudden bang caused Bakura's reflexes to kick in, and he instinctively shot up from the bed. Malik was just scrambling off the bed himself when he heard a deafening blast and saw an explosion burst from the other side of the room.

It didn't take Malik even a second to figure out what had happened. Some kind of incendiary device had been thrown through their window—possibly a Molotov cocktail? Luckily it had missed them, landing in a corner far enough away from their place on the bed that they hadn't been caught in the blast itself. But the bottle bomb had set the room ablaze, and the fire was spreading fast.

He turned to Bakura, his eyes widening when he saw Bakura's still countenance and realized that Bakura had frozen, looking poised to run but not moving a muscle.

Malik instantly understood why. He was well aware that Bakura had a terror of fire—though he didn't know exactly how he knew that, since he was fairly certain Bakura had never told him. But he knew that Bakura was alright with small, controlled fires—a lit cigarette, the burner on their gas stove, even Malik's somewhat pyromaniacal tendencies when he burned random holes in their furniture. Malik figured Bakura would have had to get used to contained fires like that, living in the desert in ancient Egypt, where a fire was the only way to stay warm, cook food, and ward off predators. But an actual fire, an uncontrolled blaze that was soon to consume their apartment—that was an entirely different matter, too close for comfort to the burning of Bakura's village when he was a child.

Malik gave an urgent tug to Bakura's sleeve. "Bakura, come on. We have to go."

But Bakura didn't move, still frozen, not seeming to even register Malik's touch or voice. Malik sighed. He supposed he could carry Bakura out of here, if he had to. The fire hadn't blocked their path to the fire escape—yet. He could have tried for the front door instead, but that was farther away, and he didn't want to keep Bakura inside with the blaze any longer than he absolutely had to.

Malik was about to attempt to pick Bakura up when their bedroom door slammed open so hard it seemed to almost come off its hinges. Malik felt as if his heart had stopped in his chest when he saw a man in the doorway who he immediately recognized from the club bathroom, as well as a woman he didn't know standing slightly behind the hulking figure in the hallway.

Both drew guns, pointing them at Malik. Malik didn't even have time to think about how crazed these people must have been, to run into a burning building just to make sure the job was finished.

There was an explosion of white in Malik's vision, then at nearly the same instant the flash of a muzzle accompanied by a deafening bang, and the next thing Malik knew Bakura was on his knees in front of him, clutching high on his own arm, his grip not doing much to stem the tide of red that now flowed from it. It took Malik a moment to realize that Bakura had broken out of his paralysis and leapt in front of him, his shoulder taking the shot that had been meant for Malik's chest.

Then they were running through the billowing smoke, hand in hand, and Malik couldn't even remember who had first grabbed whom. Everything was too hazy and loud and frantic for Malik to be able to tell if they were being pursued, but he assumed they must be. He thought he heard more gunshots behind them.

But then they were at the fire escape. Malik threw open the window and they clambered through, then they pitched themselves down the stairs as fast as their legs would carry them. For once, Malik was glad they were only on the third floor. He would have preferred something higher up, liking to be as far away from the ground as possible, but this was all that had been available at the time. But at the moment it was a blessing, because they reached the street just seconds later.

Bakura still had Malik's motorcycle keys in the pocket of his borrowed jacket, and he pulled them out and slapped them into Malik's hand as they approached the bike. Malik wasted no time, hopping onto the bike and switching it on. He felt Bakura settle behind him, gripping his waist with only one arm, the injured one hanging limp beside him. Then they were off, zipping onto the road and shooting down their street, heading for the nearest highway.

* * *

"Ow!" Bakura exclaimed.

"Hold still." Malik ignored Bakura's protests and dug the tweezers in further, searching for the bullet.

They'd driven for almost an hour before Malik had decided they hadn't been followed and it was safe for them to stop.

They'd made a quick stop at a convenience store to buy some supplies, and now they were holed up in a dingy motel. Still paranoid, Malik had made sure to park his bike in an out of the way place so that it couldn't be seen from the street.

Now Bakura lay on the ugly brown and orange bedspread, nude from the waist up, his bloody shirt having been discarded in a crumpled heap on the floor beside them. The sickly yellow light emanating from the small lamps on the walls made Bakura's pale skin look strange, almost ghoulish. Bakura winced when Malik suddenly twisted the metal tool inside his flesh, and he tried to give him a glare, but Malik didn't seem to notice.

"Got it!" Malik said, triumphant, finally drawing the tweezers out of the wound with the bullet pinched in their grip.

He tossed both the bullet and the tweezers carelessly onto the stained carpet, then grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide he'd set on the bedside table and dumped it over the bloody mess on Bakura's shoulder.

Bakura hissed at the sting, but didn't protest further as Malik mopped up the blood from his skin with a washcloth and then poured more disinfectant over the area for good measure.

They had been lucky. The bullet hadn't gone terribly deep, possibly thanks in part to Marik's thick leather jacket, which Bakura had been wearing at the time. The shot hadn't shattered bone, or hit anything really important. Malik grabbed a towel and tied it under Bakura's arm and up over his shoulder. The wound wasn't even bleeding enough anymore to immediately soak through the makeshift bandage.

Bakura stared at the white towel, which was just starting to turn slightly pink. "You realize this is the _second_ gods damned time I've mutilated my arm for your sake?"

He'd mostly meant it as a joke, but Malik looked at him with guilt in his eyes before getting up off the bed and turning away. He strode over to the little bathroom to wash his hands, then returned to the bed, the old mattress creaking as he lay down beside Bakura.

"Well...what now?" Bakura said.

Malik stared at him for a moment, and then dived down to smash their lips together. Bakura kissed back automatically out of long habit.

"Thank you," Malik said between rough, fierce kisses. "Thank you."

Finally Bakura pulled his face away, though he didn't stop Malik from clinging close to him. "Seriously, Malik...what are we going to do now?"

Malik sighed. "Get the hell out of Japan, I guess."

"And go where?"

Malik sat up, running a nervous hand through his hair. "Ultimately? I don't know. But for now...I...need to go to Egypt for a bit."

Bakura's eyes widened, shocked that Malik had brought up this subject on his own. "This has to do with the letters?" he guessed.

Malik nodded. "I did promise you an explanation. And...there's no sense putting it off any longer. And I...owe you. I really, really owe you."

Bakura just dipped his eyes, silently urging Malik to go on.

"The letters are from Rishid," Malik said, and it occurred to him that he must have been in shock from all that had happened that night—the last several nights, hell, the last few weeks—because he spoke with no emotion now, detached, as if he were talking about somebody else's brother and not his own.

"I figured they were either from Rishid or Ishizu."

"Ishizu is dead," Malik said, and it startled him to hear it out loud for the first time.

"How?" was all Bakura could think to ask.

"Car crash," Malik said. "Apparently it...wasn't really anyone's fault. Conditions were bad and it was...just a freak accident." He balled his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

Bakura didn't know what to say. Instead of talking, he reached out with his good arm and drew Malik to him. Before he knew it, Malik was sobbing into his chest.

Bakura let him cry it out, holding him tight with one arm. He cried for a long time. When he finally stilled, Bakura asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Malik shook his head. "There's nothing to say. It was...no one could have done anything. I feel like I should be feeling like it's my fault, or feeling guilty, or...isn't that how they say everyone feels when someone dies? But I'm just sad. Sad that I'll never get to see her again...never get to hear her voice...I should have called more…" He shook his head. "I just didn't want to deal with it. I wanted to distract myself, pretend it hadn't happened...and look how that turned out. She'd be so disappointed if she knew what I'd done now."

"She'd forgive you."

Malik gave him a sad smile. "You're right, you know. She would. She always did."

"And hey, you'll see her again. You know she's in the afterlife, with the gods."

Malik huffed out air. "I guess we _are_ some of the few people in the world who know for a fact that's true. So I really should be handling this better." Malik raised his eyes to stare at the yellowed ceiling. "You must think I'm a real jerk...being so upset about my sister being in the fields, going off the rails like this, when you...the people you lost...you didn't have that comfort."

"Hey, I've always thought you were a jerk." Bakura tried a smile. "Seriously though, I get it. Of course it's not easy for you...death is always hard." Malik gave him a weak smile in return and placed his hand over Bakura's, and Bakura squirmed. He wasn't good at this, at saying comforting words. And he didn't really want to prod further, but he needed to know. "So did Rishid just want to inform you? Or something else?"

"She'd want to be mummified," Malik said. "But it's expensive. Rishid has been asking me to help with the cost, and to travel home to go to the ceremony."

"Well, you know I have a ton of money saved up. You were always complaining about how much I saved, but...looks like it'll come in handy."

Tears gathered in Malik's eyes again. "Are you sure?"

"Of course."

Bakura drew him down and held him again, then. Malik cried a little more, but then he began to relax into Bakura's touch, concentrating on the feeling of Bakura's fingers threading through his hair and his palms stroking the skin along his arms.

At some point they both stripped down to their boxers so they could sleep more comfortably. Bakura's hand went to Malik's back, ghosting over his skin and then tracing his scars, and Malik returned the gentle touches, sliding his hands along Bakura's ribs and thighs and then up to the back of his neck before traveling back down again.

After a while, their lips found each other, and they shared the kind of kisses that were just for their own sake, not leading into anything else. The kisses between them were slow and sweet, their hands still traversing each other's skin as their tongues dipped briefly into each other's mouths.

They kissed and caressed for so long that Bakura forgot why he'd ever denied himself this affection. He was doing it to comfort Malik, but he was getting just as much out of it himself.

He'd _wanted_ this. He'd wanted it so badly he'd dreamed of it sometimes, curled up on the edge of his side of the bed, careful to be far enough away from Malik that they weren't touching at all, all the while desperately wishing to be in Malik's arms and kissing his lips and being near him and _oh gods_.

But he hadn't felt that he could get close to anybody. Not after everyone he'd lost. Not after spending thousands of years alone and learning to rely on only himself.

But the events of the last several days had, if anything, shown him that it was too late. He was already in so deep with Malik there was no getting out of it, even if he wanted to. So there was no point in trying to run away, or pretending anymore. He'd taken a gods damn bullet for Malik, in the middle of a gods forsaken _fire_ , and even Bakura's powers of denial—always employed to tell both himself and Malik that he _wouldn't_ do what Malik told him to this time and that he _didn't_ really care about him—weren't strong enough to allow him to convince himself that what he'd done didn't mean anything.

And he realized he didn't want to deny it anymore. Maybe the last several days had also shown him, by way of Malik's erratic behavior, that being self-destructive wasn't the most productive way to deal with loss.

And this—this was too good, too good to give up. He couldn't stop. He needed more. He'd been aching for more for so, so long.

So he sighed softly against Malik's mouth, and held him tighter, and finally, finally let himself get lost in Malik's touch.


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

Of course, Bakura went with Malik to the burial ceremony. If he were a different kind of person, he might have said it was a beautiful service.

He stood there by Malik's side at the grave site and gazed around, looking at all the lilies, the white flowers underneath the banners extolling Ishizu's virtues. He thought she would have liked it—not that he really knew her, not like Malik did. He shook his head, thinking of what had become of her.

He knew Ishizu had been decapitated in the accident. But the mummification was well-done—no observer would be able to tell that her head hadn't been attached to her body before the ritual. Her body lay dignified, wrapped in white strips of linen, the golden sarcophagus adorned with topaz, holding her form, carved snakes slithering around her slender body, which lay next to various items meant to accompany her into the afterlife, pieces of jewelry and little figurines and jars whose contents Bakura couldn't guess.

Bakura had once read online that when a person's head was severed from its body, it could remain conscious for up to half a minute before expiring. But he didn't mention this to Malik, not knowing if he would find it comforting or disturbing.

The two wandered, Malik clutching Bakura's hand the entire time. Bakura felt lucky that he was ambidextrous and could still use his free hand to grab at the plates of cheese and meat spread over the fancy white tables. He'd used this gift many times in ancient Egypt, his ability to command both hands always useful when robbing tombs.

But that didn't matter now. He turned his thoughts away from the past and focused his attention on Malik's brother as Rishid walked towards them, approaching them with a stolid look on his face.

"Hello, brother," the large, bald man said.

Malik dipped his head, but didn't respond otherwise.

"Are you as well as can be expected?" Rishid asked.

"I am," said Malik.

"Good." After a pause, he said, "I am given to understand that a human head may live for up to thirty seconds after its separation from the body."

"That _is_ good news," Malik said.

"Yes," Rishid said. "We must focus on the small comforts."

Malik nodded. "Indeed."

Rishid inclined his head towards Bakura. "Thank you for your help."

Bakura scratched his head, looking away. "It wasn't a problem."

Soon it was time for everyone to sit down so the priestess could conduct the ceremony for the deceased.

Malik and Bakura sat next to Rishid in the white chairs laced with false green ivy, and listened to what the priestess had to say.

After casting the required spells, she said a few words about Ishizu. She spoke of how she was wise, and good, and a hard worker at the museum where she was employed, and a loving sister, and a kind person, and how her head may have lived for up to thirty seconds after her decapitation.

Malik didn't cry during the funeral, but Bakura had a feeling he might later, when they were alone in the guest room at Rishid's place.

They stayed in Egypt for a few weeks, visiting with Rishid and planning where they would go next. Neither had attained any desire to stay permanently in Egypt—the place still held too many painful memories for both of them, maybe even more so now after Ishizu's passing—but when they finally headed off, Malik promised to call Rishid more and to visit often.

In the end they decided to settle in Cascadia. It seemed like a nice place, and the lax immigration policy made it reasonably easy to migrate to. Not that they couldn't have forged some things and managed to sneak in wherever they wanted, but they both knew they were done with that kind of life. Without needing to discuss it, an unspoken agreement had passed between them, and they both silently acknowledged that they were going to be trying to make an honest go of it from now on.

Bakura wasn't completely sure how he felt about giving up thieving entirely, but he knew that Malik wanted nothing to do with criminal activity anymore—after what he'd done, he didn't want to risk ever ending up in a situation like that again. Besides, he felt the need to do something that would make his sister proud.

Bakura teased him that he'd probably end up running a vegan food cart or something, and then he'd somehow manage to rope Bakura into helping him, and then Bakura would never forgive him.

But deep down Bakura didn't think he'd mind it that much if things turned out that way. He realized that after everything that had happened, he'd lost whatever lingering taste for danger he'd still had. And really, after three thousand years of struggle, the idea of a peaceful life didn't sound half bad. Maybe in order to settle and find peace he'd just needed to realize that Malik was here, that Malik wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

A few months later, Rishid came to visit them at their new place. Malik had kept his promise about keeping in touch, and desired frequent visits as well.

Rishid thought Malik was doing well. He'd previously suggested Malik attend grief counseling, and Malik had gone a few times, but had said it didn't do much to help him. Now, seeing him settling into his new life, Rishid thought Bakura might be doing more for him than any professional ever could.

They touched nearly all the time, in an absentminded way, almost seeming unaware that they were doing it. It wasn't anything showy, not anything one would really call a public display of affection, nothing one would even take particular note of if one wasn't paying attention...but Rishid noticed.

At breakfast, Bakura always sat on Malik's right side. Malik was left handed, and Bakura could eat with either hand, so sitting in this way allowed them to sit close enough for their shoulders and knees to make light contact without them bumping elbows.

They sat even closer when they were on the couch, casually leaning against each other as Rishid sat in the chair in the living room while the three watched television.

When they were walking down the street in public, they didn't precisely hold hands, but sometimes Rishid would glance over to see their pinkies discreetly linked, and once in a while one would grab the other's wrist to pull him towards some new destination.

They'd gone to see a movie once during his visit, and then, they did hold hands, Bakura sneaking a hand into Malik's lap once the lights had dimmed, and then snatching it away as the credits began to roll.

Once, Rishid had perched on the couch in the living room next to Malik, talking with his brother as Bakura sat cross legged on the floor playing a video game, his body between Malik's feet, his head occasionally resting against Malik's knee, Malik idly playing with Bakura's hair and eventually starting to unconsciously braid it.

On the second to last day of his visit, he'd seen them lying in bed together. He truly hadn't meant to intrude upon their bedroom; it was simply that the morning was growing late, and he had wondered if they were awake yet. He'd given the door a gentle tap, and they must have forgotten to latch it, because it swung open, and he saw them nose to nose, fingers grazing each other's cheeks, just gazing at each other and smiling, and he'd quickly made himself scarce.

By the time Rishid was saying his farewells and readying himself for his flight home, he was sure Malik was going to be alright. He would have thanked Bakura, but knew it would only embarrass him. Instead, he simply said, "Take care of him," though he already knew Bakura would.

* * *

Malik suddenly pulled Bakura into his lap, the quick motion rumpling the blanket they sat on. "We haven't done it in a week."

Bakura wrapped his legs around Malik's waist. "Well, you didn't want to do it while your brother was here."

"Well he's gone home. We're alone now, aren't we?"

"Why do you think I brought you up here?"

Malik looked up into the star-shot sky and smiled. They were on the roof of their apartment building, which, being a high rise, gave them an amazing view of the night sky. If Malik angled his gaze a bit lower, he could see the city sprawling out beneath them, the twinkling lights bright in the darkness.

Malik and Bakura had been up here a time or two, but it was hard for the introverted pair to really enjoy it since there were always multiple people atop the building from evening to night, right up until one AM when the roof was declared closed and the door leading to it was locked.

Now they had the roof to themselves, though. Although Bakura had mostly given up criminal activity, he wasn't above picking a lock so he and Malik could sneak up onto the roof after hours and have some privacy in such a beautiful place.

A light gust of wind made Malik snuggle closer to Bakura, and then he leaned back, pulling Bakura down with him.

Bakura wasted no time joining their lips, and Malik kissed him with passion, his hands already searching for a way underneath his shirt. After a few moments of fumbling, he managed to pull the garment over Bakura's head. Bakura did the same to him, and Malik gasped at the feeling of the cool night air on his back.

They rolled to lie on their sides, Bakura's fingers tracing Malik's scars as Malik's hands tangled into Bakura's mane of white hair, which was now back to its original hue and a perfect silvery complement to Malik's golden locks, also restored to their natural color.

Malik suddenly giggled against Bakura's mouth. Sometimes he was still made giddy by the fact that their foreplay was now so often extended and affectionate, something Bakura never would have engaged in before, back when they lived in Japan. The fact that Malik was a bit buzzed contributed to the feeling—Bakura had brought a bottle of wine to the roof for them to share (though he hadn't brought glasses, so the two had simply passed the bottle back and forth between them, drinking directly from it.)

Bakura's reaction was to smile against Malik's lips and pull him closer, and Malik let out a sweet sigh. They continued to kiss and caress underneath the stars until they lost track of time, neither knowing how long they'd been up here, though they both knew they'd have to vacate the roof before morning, when the apartment manager would come to unlock the door for the day.

Finally their kisses and touches and the friction of their bodies rubbing against each other made them too aroused to wait any longer, and they both struggled out of their jeans and boxers. Bakura reached into the pocket of his discarded pants for their bottle of lube and tossed it to Malik before rolling over onto his other side, his back to Malik.

Malik spooned up behind him, letting his hands tease Bakura's nipples for a few minutes before eventually drifting down to play with his erection, his touch light and his movements gradual so Bakura wouldn't finish too soon.

Bakura bucked into his hand. "Malik...don't tease…"

Malik chuckled and removed his hand so he could coat himself in the lube. At Bakura's request, he didn't make him wait any longer, and gripped his hips as he slid slowly into him.

The moment he was inside, Bakura was already panting and pushing back against him, so Malik began to rock his hips, replacing his now lube-slick hand on Bakura's twitching erection.

Bakura closed his eyes and moaned at the sensations overwhelming him, Malik's slippery fingers firmly stroking him and his cock filling him, and then he let out a shameless wail as Malik angled himself so he was hitting just the right spot inside him.

Malik sped up both his strokes and his thrusts, and Bakura chanted his name like a prayer, losing himself to the moment. Malik's own moans and curses joined Bakura's, muffled as he buried his face in Bakura's neck, kissing and nipping the skin there.

It wasn't long before Bakura spilled over Malik's hand, crying out as he came. Malik pounded into him for only a few more moments before his own orgasm overtook him, and he screamed Bakura's name.

Afterwards, they lay trembling together, reluctant to separate their bodies, relishing the closeness. Bakura sighed in contentment, allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of their bodies still being interlocked as Malik continued to kiss his throat.

Finally, Malik pulled out, and Bakura rolled onto his back, gazing up at the bright burning stars. He didn't mind fire when it was millions of light years away, but otherwise, he'd had enough of fire to last him several lifetimes. Luckily, Malik's penchant for burning things had gone; he hadn't done it since leaving Japan. Bakura had actually briefly considered bringing a candle up to the roof with them, but quickly discarded the idea not only because it was too sappy, but also because he thought neither of them needed an actual flame around anymore. The fire between them when they kissed was a much better kind of heat.

Malik took Bakura's hand in his and pulled him close, intertwining their bodies again. Bakura turned to look into Malik's amethyst eyes, smiling at the sparkle of happiness he saw there as he reached out to brush his fingertips underneath.

They kissed again, slow and sweet, and didn't stop until the sun began to lighten the sky.

* * *

AN: They lived happily ever after.

Reminder that this was cowritten with Taemanaku, aka Individually Packaged- unfortunately this site doesn't allow you to add coauthors.

AbbeyWan has done a few pieces of cool fanart for this fic; if you want to see them, check this fic out on AO3- the fanart is included within the fic there (this site doesn't let you include pictures in the text of fics, either.)

Thanks to SuperSteffy for doing the beta for this fic!

Thanks for reading, let us know what you think!


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